


your lips on my lips (that's a merry merry christmas)

by notcaycepollard



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Mistletoe, Pining, asgard is so fun for crack tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 01:03:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9049072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/pseuds/notcaycepollard
Summary: "I see you have found the mistilástar, my friends."
"The what,” Sam demands, struggling a little against the vines, and they tighten in response, pressing Sam and Bucky closer together. Bucky holds very, very still.
“Mistilástar,” Thor says like it’s obvious. “Lover’s bramble? Captain Rogers explained the tradition of mistletoe. It sounded similar to our feasting custom, so at his request I brought a sprig from Asgard to share in this revelment.”
“Asgard mistletoe,” Sam says flatly. “Steve asked you to bring Asgard mistletoe to Christmas.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PrettyInSoulPunk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyInSoulPunk/gifts).



> For prettyinsoulpunk, who requested the prompt: "Sam/Bucky mistletoe kisses". bless u asgardian crack tropes, always coming through with the goods.

In retrospect, including Thor in their secret Avengers Christmas dinner is probably where they went wrong.

It’s not that Bucky doesn’t like Thor, or anything. Shit, he’s strong enough that he can take Bucky’s sparring at full strength, and he reminds Bucky of nothing so much as an even louder and more noble version of Steve. Like two big ol’ golden retrievers bounding around, ready to protect whatever’s in danger and kind of forgetting that sometimes what’s in danger is everything in their paths getting knocked the fuck over by their huge stupid wagging tails.

That analogy got away with him, Bucky thinks a little fuzzily. It’s probably Thor’s fault. No, it’s definitely Thor’s fault. Or Thor’s bottle of mead’s fault. Yeah. Thassit, yeah. Fucking beautiful golden retriever men.

_Sam_ , Bucky thinks, is definitely not a golden retriever. He’s beautiful, though - Bucky can admit that, if only to himself, and only grumpily. Jesus _fuck_ he’s beautiful. It shouldn’t be allowed, to be that beautiful. Should be laws against it, or something.

“What are you scowling at me for?” Sam asks, and gets up to pour himself another drink. Bucky follows him. Leans in the kitchen doorway, watches Sam pick at the leftover ham and turkey. The dressing looks pretty good, actually. Bucky’s not hungry, but since when is that gonna stop him eating.

“I’m not,” he says, belated. “Scowling at you. I’m not. I was just thinking about your face.”

“About my face,” Sam repeats, and stares at Bucky for a minute, swallows a large mouthful of his drink. “Okay, fine, whatever.”

“No, it’s not-” Bucky cuts himself off, growls with frustration, and Sam pauses, leans back against the other side of the door. Sips his whisky, holds Bucky’s gaze easy and level.

“It’s not what?”

“It’s...” Bucky starts. Trails off, reaches for Sam’s glass. Sam lets him grab it; must be a Christmas miracle. He swallows a mouthful, another. Passes it back. “Fuck it, fine. It’s not terrible.”

“My face isn’t terrible,” Sam says, like he needs to clarify, and Bucky rolls his eyes.

“That’s what I said, Wilson. Merry Christmas, your face isn’t terrible.”

“That’s sweet,” Sam says. Glances up at the sprig of mistletoe above them and smirks, full lips curving prettily. Bucky’s suddenly a little distracted by that smirk, if he’s being honest. And then Sam leans in closer, brushes a kiss to Bucky’s cheek. “You’re sweet,” he murmurs. Pats Bucky on the other cheek, pulls away.

Bucky maybe stops breathing for a second or two. And then. _And then_. That’s when everything goes kind of sideways.

“Uh,” Sam says thirty seconds later. “Uh? Steve? Thor?”

"Ah yes," Thor says, "I see you have found the mistilástar, my friends."

"The _what_ ,” Sam demands, struggling a little against the vines, and they tighten in response, pressing Sam and Bucky closer together. Bucky holds very, very still.

“Mistilástar,” Thor says like it’s obvious. “Lover’s bramble? Captain Rogers explained the tradition of mistletoe. It sounded similar to our feasting custom, so at his request I brought a sprig from Asgard to share in this revelment.”

“Asgard mistletoe,” Sam says flatly. “Steve asked you to bring Asgard mistletoe to Christmas.” He glares hard at Steve; maybe it’s undercut by how he’s basically embraced in Bucky’s arms, because Steve just grins. “Fuck you, Rogers, when I get out of this shit I’m gonna report you to the government for importing alien plant matter. Thor, how _do_ I get out of this shit?”

“It’s lover’s bramble,” Thor shrugs like it’s obvious. “Kiss beneath it and it will entangle any pair harboring an unconfessed love. The solution is simple.”

“I’m not in love with him!” Bucky squawks, and feels himself blush deeply as soon as he says it. Steve stares hard at him. Raises one eyebrow. “Fuck you, I’m not!”

“Don’t worry,” Sam tells him, “I’m not in love with you either, Barnes.” The vines tighten again. “Oh, for- come on, Thor, there’s gotta be another way to get us out.”

“I am afraid I cannot assist,” Thor says gravely. Bucky narrows his eyes. He’s pretty sure he can see Thor trying to hold back a smile. Steve’s not even trying, his face lit up with a huge shit-eating grin. Fuckin’ _golden retrievers_. “Come,” Thor says to Steve, “let us leave them be, friend Steven. Another drink?”

“You got some of that mead, I wouldn’t say no,” Steve agrees, and they disappear off to the balcony like they’re _giving Bucky and Sam privacy_ , shit. Those assholes.

“Those assholes,” Sam mutters mournfully. “I can’t believe you got me into this mess.”

“Hey,” Bucky objects, “you were the one who kissed _me_ , pal, don’t blame this on me.”

“I hate you,” Sam sighs, and the mistilástar snakes down around Bucky’s waist, hauls them closer still. “Oh my god. Okay. Fine. We’ll just stand here, huh? Cool. I can’t even drink my whisky, this _sucks_.”

Bucky hesitates. Sam’s upper arms are trapped by the vine, stopping him from lifting the glass to his mouth, but Bucky’s right hand is free.

“I could…” he offers, and reaches for Sam’s glass. Takes it from him, holds it up to Sam’s lips and tilts it for Sam to drink. Catches how Sam blinks a little, the sweep of his long lashes. Bucky watches him swallow, the movement of his throat, and suddenly feels warm all over.

“Thanks,” Sam says. Licks his lips. Bucky’s throat is dry, so he takes a sip. Hesitates before letting his left hand rest on Sam’s hip, cautious. He can smell the whisky on Sam’s breath.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. Carefully doesn’t look at Sam’s face while he says it. “This ain’t what you want to be doing on Christmas, probably.”

“Well, silver linings, I’m not out there having to listen to Thor’s battle stories,” Sam shrugs. “I’ve been in worse situations.”

“We’re not fighting a kid in a spider onesie,” Bucky offers, and Sam snorts with laughter.

“True,” he agrees, “true. Hey, is there any whisky left in that glass?”

“Oh,” Bucky says, “yeah,” and holds the glass to Sam’s mouth again. Tilts it a little too far, and whisky spills over the rim, runs down Sam’s chin. “ _Shit_ , sorry, that was an accident, I swear.” He wipes Sam’s face with the back of his hand, the cuff of his shirt. Blushing and furious with himself, like, Jesus _Christ_ , Barnes, Sam’s gonna think he’s just being a jerk for the sake of it.

“It’s fine,” Sam laughs. “I believe you. Hey, if there’s any left that’s not dripping down my neck, you should finish it.”

“Okay,” Bucky agrees. Drains the glass and stretches out so he can set it down on the kitchen counter. He can only just reach, has to push it onto the counter with his fingertips. Feels himself overbalance, and Sam grabs him, holds him steady.

“We’re tied together, Barnes, you go over I go over, remember? Oh my god, James Buchanan Barnes, are you _drunk_?”

“No,” Bucky says with dignity. “Jeez, what kinda question is that. You know I can’t get drunk.”

“Right,” Sam says, sly. “Unless you’ve been drinking Thor’s mead, huh?”

“I’m not _drunk_ ,” Bucky says again. “I’m just. Comfortable. Easy. _Merry_ , shit, it’s Christmas, right?”

“Uh huh,” Sam says. “Well, if it makes you feel better, I’m kinda drunk, so. You mind if I lean on you a bit? All this standing up, Jesus. Why couldn’t the mistil-wassit have got us on a couch, at least.”

“Go ahead,” Bucky tells him, and Sam relaxes in against him. Rests his cheek against Bucky’s shoulder, and Bucky glances down at him, the curve of his cheek, his smooth brown skin and rich dark eyes, and thinks, oh _shit_.

“You know,” Sam says, quiet like maybe he’s talking to himself and not to Bucky at all, “you’re actually pretty comfortable to lean on.” He runs his fingers through Bucky’s hair, strokes the nape of his neck. “Guess I really have been in worse situations, huh.”

Bucky is not equipped for this. Sam is _in his arms_ and he’s _touching Bucky’s hair_ and he smells so good, the smoke of the whisky overlaid over his cologne, cocoa butter, warm skin, and Bucky has just had a revelation that he needs about the next fifty years to consider.

He brushes his fingers gently over Sam’s hip, underneath the hem of his shirt. Rubs his thumb against Sam’s hipbone, and hears Sam hum softly under his breath like it feels good. Oh no. Oh shit.

“Your face is beautiful,” Bucky blurts out. “That’s what I was thinking. About your face. Not just that it isn’t terrible. I mean, it isn’t, but. Your face is beautiful. _You’re_ beautiful. That’s what I wanted to say.”

There is a long, long silence. Bucky wants to die.

“You think my face is beautiful,” Sam repeats, looking up at Bucky. Bucky chews his lip. Closes his eyes and opens them again. Sam’s still there. Still beautiful. No way around it.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, Sam, I think your face is beautiful, okay.”

“That’s why you were scowling at me. Because my face is-”

“Because you’re so beautiful it should be illegal, is what I was thinking,” Bucky admits. “Jesus. There it is, okay? Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“Oh,” Sam says lightly, “I’m gonna. Forever. But first, okay, I’m gonna kiss you.”

Wait.

What?

Sam’s lips are warm against Bucky’s. Light and gentle, like he’s letting Bucky decide how far he wants to take this, and Bucky lets his mouth fall open, brushes his tongue along Sam’s lower lip. Tastes whisky, and feels Sam shiver. It’s nice, it’s better than nice, and Bucky presses his palm to Sam’s cheek, strokes his thumb along Sam’s jaw, pulls him in for another kiss. This one is deeper, and Sam moans against Bucky’s mouth, leans into it, his chest and hips flush with Bucky’s and _oh_ that’s, that’s something, that’s surprising and joyful all at once.

Bucky kisses the curve of Sam’s throat, licks a long line down his skin. Sweat-salt and sweet with the spilled whisky all at once, and Sam moans again, and Bucky kisses him careful and sweet. Teasing little nips down Sam’s throat, his hand sliding higher up under Sam’s shirt. Spreads his fingers out over Sam’s ribs, feels his heart beating fast.

Sam’s kissing him and he _wants it_ , making soft little noises that set off sparks in Bucky’s brain, he’s got his fingers in Bucky’s hair and he’s pulling Bucky in and in, this is the best Christmas Bucky has ever had in his goddamn life.

“You love me,” he whispers against Sam’s skin, voice gravel-rough. “Go on, sweetheart, just admit it. That’s why we’re here, ain’t it?”

“Fuck you,” Sam sighs, soft and breathy and amused all at once. Nips at Bucky’s earlobe. “You first.”

“You’re the worst,” Bucky tells him. “So beautiful it should be illegal, and I love you, and you should kiss me again.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, “yeah, okay, yeah. You got me. I guess I love you a little, Barnes.”

“Only a little?” Bucky asks. Shoves his hips against Sam’s, just once, and hears Sam’s breath stutter.

“ _Fuck_ , okay, a lot. I love you a lot. You’re a pain in my ass and I don’t want you anywhere else, Jesus, Bucky, come back here.”

They kiss for so long Bucky feels drunk on it. His hand up Sam’s shirt, Bucky backed up against the doorway so Sam can grind up on him, and it only slowly dawns on Bucky that something’s changed about their situation.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Sam.”

“Hmmm?”

“The vines are gone. You can move.”

“I know,” Sam says, and doesn’t.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> look okay I didn't just make this up wholecloth, I googled ancient norse in order to come up with a word that was vaguely plausible
> 
> happy christmas/happy holidays!! I hope you all have a great time. come hang out with me [on tumblr](http://notcaycepollard.tumblr.com/).


End file.
